


Flowering

by bruvebanner



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bruce is a soft old man, Flowers, Just wants his Tea, M/M, Team Thor, Thor's terrible style choices, Tumblr Prompt, and a nap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-12 01:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13536546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruvebanner/pseuds/bruvebanner
Summary: Prompt: First and last time(s) Thor brings Bruce flowers, via adenil-umano on Tumblr





	Flowering

The wind was blowing; in the distance, a soft storm rumbled. 

The wind buffeted the windows of Bruce’s little apartment, a few potted plants swinging in their jute rope hangers on the patio. There was the soft sound of his neighbors wind chimes, muffled through the glass, and the low growl of thunder accompanied it soon enough.

Bruce was sat at his desk, one knee curled to his chest, chewing on the end of his pen as he stared at the screen of his laptop. A thick, warm shawl was tugged around his shoulders, and he pulled it further around himself, yawning softly as the words on the screen began to blur. He’d been working all day, and as the sky outside began to darken with the impending rain, Bruce couldn’t help but succumb to the urge to curl up on the couch and nap.

He moved to stand, stretching and cracking his back with an all too satisfying  _ pop.  _ The shawl fell onto his chair, and he took off his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes with his knuckles as he shuffled towards the couch. He toed his slippers off, padding barefoot across the fuzzy carpet, and grabbed the blanket off the back of the recliner. He pondered at a cup of tea a moment, but decided better of it, not wanting to waste any precious time for this little nap.

Outside, however, there was a distinct clap of thunder, far closer than before, and Bruce jumped with surprise as the lightning shot across the sky, painting his muted apartment in stark relief. The low lights flickered, and went out. He dropped his glasses to the coffee table, taking a deep breath and running both hands through his graying curls to calm the sudden spike in his heart rate. The rain had finally reached him, and began to pelt the windows. 

Just as he moved to gather a few candles from the kitchen, another clap of thunder practically  _ rocked _ his little apartment, and he almost missed the sound of three loud knocks on his door, distracted by the sudden intensity the previously lazy storm had taken on.

After a moments pause where he tried to get his barrings, grabbing his glasses once more and going to tug his curtains closed, he heard the knocking continue, this time a bit more urgently. Worry tugged at his chest. His eyes went to the phone on his desk, untouched for months; it hadn’t rang in so long...and he held onto the hope that maybe it never would.

But he could never be sure.

Bruce sighed, looking for his slippers quickly and grabbing his shawl, tugging it tight around his shoulders in some hopes to ward off any bad news. At the back of his mind, he felt a whispered stirring, and he shuddered.

As he came to the door, finally, Bruce hesitated. Then, with a deep breath held in his lungs, he unlocked the door and tugged it open.

On the other side of the threshold was Thor.

The relief Bruce felt was beyond words.

The blond looked bedraggled; he was soaked by the rain, his hair dripping, falling out of the haphazard bun he seems to have attempted. He was breathing heavy, chest rising and falling in quick succession. What Thor was wearing, Bruce had no idea; some strange combination of a sleeveless hoodie and a horrendous pair of blue and white striped shorts.  

Honestly, it wasn’t the strangest thing Bruce had seen Thor wearing. 

The real puzzling part of this picture was the...drowned bouquet of peonies he had clutched to his chest, and the owlish expression he had on his face.

“Banner--” He began, and then made an aborted movement with his hand, as if unsure what to do with the bouquet. “I--Bruce, uh--” Again, the strange shove forward, and then quick yank back of the flowers.

The thunder  **_boomed_ ** and Bruce nearly startled out of his own skin. Thor’s fingers sparked, and for a moment Bruce worried the flowers might burst into flame.

Luckily they were soaked enough not to burn.

“Would...you like to come in?” Bruce wasn’t sure what was going on, exactly, but the poor man couldn’t have felt good out in the rain and the cold. “I can get some tea brewing, um...”

Thor’s jaw clenched tight, his expression severe, and Bruce wondered for a moment if he’d offended the God somehow. But then he nodded, just once, and strode inside. 

Bruce noted, as he stepped inside, Thor was wearing...socks and sandals. The wet socks squelched, and Bruce immediately cringed. 

“How about you...” Bruce wasn’t sure how to tell a grown man to take his socks off  _ right this second _ so instead he cleared his throat and closed the door, moving back towards his living room.

“Would you like something to dry off with?”

Thor didn’t look at him, brow furrowed deeply, and after a long, awkward pause, he abruptly shook his wet head, droplets of water leaving dark spots on the carpet.

“Um...Alright then.” Bruce let this strange behavior slide like water down a ducks back and tugged up the blanket he’d left crumpled on the chair, laying it out on the couch so Thor wouldn’t soak it. “You, um...sit. I’ll make some of that tea.”

He headed for the kitchen, and remembered as he attempted to turn on the light that the power was out. With a frustrated huff, he looked through a few drawers, and upon finding his candles gathered them into his arms and moved to set them up on the counter.

In the living room, Thor hadn’t moved, and as Bruce locked eyes with him, expression puzzled, Thor turned his head quickly away. His face looked...flushed.

Lightning flashed out the window, and Bruce was sure it must’ve been the lights playing tricks on his eyes.

It took a few minutes to get everything prepared; candles lit on the counter, Bruce turned on the gas stove, set the water to bowl, and prepped two cups for when it was ready.

And then he returned to the living room, slowly; he had no idea what was going on with the Asgardian, and he was almost afraid to broach the subject. And the longer Thor stood there, in his tragic attire, gripping those poor drowned peonies, the more pitiful he looked.

It felt like a very strange standoff, Bruce on one end of the couch, Thor at the other, neither moving to take a seat. Neither speaking.

And then, as if roused out of some deep dream-state, Thor blinked and finally looked at Bruce, his expression completely incomprehensible. He took a step forward-- _ squelch _ \--and then shoved his hand forward, fist white-knuckled around the stems, and took a deep breath.

“These--uh--” He stumbled over his words, scowling deeply at his own misstep, before taking a deep breath. “These are, were, for...you.” 

Thunder grumbled outside, and Bruce felt distinctly disconnected from the moment.

Bruce’s silence stretched on longer than Thor seemed prepared to handle, and he closed the distance between them in two long strides. He was close enough now that the flowers were shoved against Bruce’s chest; the petals left little wet spots against his sweater. 

Bruce felt very small; Thor stood over him, and his blue gaze was sharp and bright. No lightning would ever strike quite as severely, or pierce Bruce nearly as precisely. 

“For you, for...” There was a moment where Thor’s eyes dragged over him, pinned him in place as he took him in from head to toe, deliberate and pointed. He took a breath. “Flowers are used to show...affection, on Midgard, right?”

Bruce had apparently swallowed his tongue. He opened his mouth, closed it sharply, and nodded once. The smell of the flowers seemed to cling to the back of his throat, and his hands twitched helplessly at his sides.

And then the kettle began to screech, and he moved was yanked out of his momentary trance, stepping back out of Thor’s intoxicating radios.

“Just--I’ll be--” He tripped over his own slippers, and very narrowly avoided falling flat as he all but fled into his little kitchen. He could feel Thor’s eyes on him the entire time, but he didn’t look up; he focused all of his energy on the task at hand. Carefully, he poured the water. Ever so gently he added a spoon of honey. Slowly, slowly he set the two steaming mugs on his little breakfast tray, grabbed a little plate of cookies he liked to leave lying around for when he felt munchy, and brought the tray into the living room to set on the coffee table.

Only once all of these very important tasks were complete did Bruce look at Thor. 

He’d finally taken a seat on the couch, and he’d laid the flowers in his lap, fixing his wet blond locks up into a bun. His eyes were trained on Bruce, and something in his expression sent Bruce’s heart dancing about in his chest. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, and he was almost sure Thor, God that he was, could hear it.

Bruce offered Thor the mug, which he graciously accepted. Then he glanced about the living room, and, wordlessly, Bruce grabbed an empty vase sitting on one bookshelf, coming back and holding out his hand for the sad bouquet.

Thor blinked at him from over the rim of his coffee, before a slow smile crept across his face. He handed Bruce the flowers, and as he did their hands brushed, gently. Thor didn’t pull away, and for a long moment, neither did Bruce.

-

Eventually, the flowers sat on the coffee table, nestled in their vase. The storm outside had calmed in its intensity, but still the rain sang a soft and sweet tune for the coming dark of the night. Thor now rested on the couch, warm and dry in a pair of borrowed sweats and a fluffy purple sweater. His mug of tea was empty, and the cookies were mysteriously all gone.

Bruce sat at his side, still nursing the remains of his own tea. Thor’s body radiated warmth beside him. His smile, slow and gentle, kept a flame flickering in Bruce’s chest, a bud of a feeling he wasn’t sure of just yet. But that was okay. 

This was okay.

-

Later, when Bruce had fallen asleep, Thor watched him long into the night. He touched the grey of his hair, traced the tired lines of his face. 

He looked at the flowers, their soft blooms already withering. 

Thor watched, and the storm became still.

-

Years passed. Years and years. The phone on Bruce’s desk rang less, and less, and less still. 

And then, eventually, it simply never rang again.

It gathered dust.

-

Thor had chosen them carefully. 

This time, he’d picked each flower by hand. They were in the fullest bloom; each stem was strong, delicately trimmed. They were perfect.

Still, he wasn’t satisfied.

Nothing would ever be good enough; nothing would have quite the same luster as it once did.

Despite this, he cradled the bushel to his chest delicately, closing his eye. They would have to do. 

He breathed deeply. The smell filled his head.

For a short moment, he was home. 

He was on the couch, pressed against his aging husband, nosing at his grey hair and breathing in the scent of the floral shampoo he’d taken to using. He was holding him, as carefully as one might hold a child; he was so fragile, a flower cupped in Thor’s mighty hands. He was kissing him, the slow, sweet kind of kiss one could only have after having kissed their lover a hundred thousand times.

For just a moment, he saw him; his eyes, their warm, honeyed glow. His smile, secretive and sweet. He heard him, his laugh, reverberating deep in the hollow of Thor’s chest, where his heart once lay. He saw him, as if in a vision, or a dream; shimmering and intangible. But the moment Thor tried to grasp him, tried to see him clearly...he was gone.

Thor had picked these flowers, each one by hand.

Before, in his desperation, in his fear, all those years ago, he’d ripped them from their bush, knowing only that he wanted one man and one man alone, and knowing that men die.

Now, he was older; he was tired. 

And he was wise.

Each flower he picked would wither, and each flower he chose, no matter how full, no matter how beautiful, would die.

-

“Hello, dear.” Thor knelt, a weary smile spreading across his lips. His hands trembled, and he pressed his palm to the cool marble of the headstone. “My moon and stars.”

Grass had grown tall around the grave; wildflowers dotted the earth, and moss had begun to grow in patches on the stone. Bruce’s name, at least, was not obscured.

“I’m sorry for being away so long.” He kept his voice low, as if speaking for his husbands ears alone. “My people...but you understand.”

He felt his throat grow tight with emotion, and he shifted, sitting now. He rested the bouquet in his lap, one hand slowly stroking the petals.

His bones ached; despite it all, he had grown old. 

If Bruce could’ve seen him now...he would have laughed. Perhaps he would have called him an old wizard, joked about the creaking of his joints.

Perhaps he would’ve done many things.

Thor used to come here nearly every day, in the beginning. He would sit at this grave and talk to the air; he would weep at this monument to his lost love. He supposes this human tradition was a blessing and a curse; he had a place to lay his respects, but it never truly made the ache fade.

But as years and years passed, he came less and less.

Some would say he had moved on. But he had not. He simply couldn’t muster the strength.

“I picked these for you.” He lifted the flowers, and then very carefully placed them against the headstone. 

In the distance, he heard the faint sound of thunder. The sky began to grow dark.

Despite the smile on his lips, a hot tear rolled slowly down his cheek. 

“I’m so...tired, dear. I never could quite comprehend how tired you became, near the end. How the years dragged on you.” He closed his eye, tipping his head back and breathing deeply. “I do not...wish to continue.”

Wind began to blow, gently at his back. A few strands of his hair blew around his face, and he opened his eye, looking once more to the grave. 

“Are you waiting for me, my love?” His voice became hoarse, and he felt a hard clench of pain in his chest.

The storm was travelling faster, now; rain began to fall, and the wind whipped quicker around him, stirring the grass, making the trees sway.

“I loved you...I  _ love _ you,” he said, a fierceness edging into his soft voice. “This world holds nothing for me without you in it. I want to be  _ free _ of it.”

Lightning struck at his back, arcing through the air. 

He blinked. 

And then, slowly, he smiled.

The world was silent as the storm kicked into a newfound frenzy; thunder boomed and crashed. The rain poured, drowning the world around him. The wind yanked through the trees like a wild spirit.

At the storms center, Thor sat, still as a stone.

Lightning crackled across his skin, bleeding from his eye; he could taste it across his tongue.

He took a breath. He opened his palms, and turned his face towards the sky; he opened his mouth to the pouring rain.

And then, all at once, lightning struck.

-

Pink peonies petals fluttered in the wind where Thor once sat; they danced, mingling with the glow of gold, shimmering light. 


End file.
